Unfulfilled
by WhiskeyWitch
Summary: Years after escaping the cult, Sang-mi and her mother strive to build normal lives. But when Sang-mi's father is eligible for early release from prison, will the change threaten to destroy all that Sang-mi and her mother have built? Rated T for themes of trauma and violence.
1. Dark Anniversary

It was spring: the kind of spring that came on all at once and takes you by surprise. The sudden change in weather had been a shock to the system for everyone on campus. The men stayed out later; the women found more scandalous secrets to whisper in the back of lecture halls. Everywhere there was a sense of creation, of fomentation: everyone was writing, singing, grabbing at each other. Everyone except Sang-mi.

Spring, for Sang-mi, meant an anniversary. Well, one of her "dark anniversaries," as she liked to call them. She had several such anniversaries: the death of her brother (fall), the death of her tormentor and abuser, the Pastor (summer). But this anniversary was not a death, not quite. It was the anniversary of her father being sentenced to prison.

Sang mi had (barely) escaped from a cult three years ago. It was an ordeal that left many dead, including a journalist friend of hers. The journey out had also left many scars, both physical and emotional, on her, her friends, and the other members of the cult. It was not the emotional scars that the police were concerned with, however: they were preoccupied solely with the physical assaults. As a part of prayer, cult members were subjected to "hands-on prayers" that were meant to drive the devil out of a body. To an observer, these prayers looked like beatings—which, of course, they were.

Towards the end of his time with the church, Sang-mi's father had been given a leadership role in which he performed multiple of these "hands-on prayers." His willingness, vigor, and identifiability by his victims had earned him a sentence of eight years in prison.

In her dorm room, Sang-mi tried to collect herself at her desk. She traced her hand along her lamp. She felt the warmth of the bulb radiating through the metal shade. She tried to concentrate on this sensation, the heat, but her mind wandered. Her mind took her back to her father's trial. He was alone. _Where are the others?_ Sang-mi remembered asking herself. Her father had committed crimes, but so had others. Why was he facing this alone? She almost felt sadness or anger at the injustice. But she pushed it down. She had promised herself that she would not forgive him. She remembered her own bruises, and she pictured the hundreds of bruises she would never get to see. Bruises, and maybe worse. She shuddered at the thought.

_Stay here, Sang-mi_, she told herself. _Your room, here. _She got up. She paced the room. She went over to her fish, Sanus. She watched Sanus's blue fins beat against the water, turning its body in place. She had named it using a Latin word. "Healthy."

She let her feet move across the rug, dragging them like ice skating. But the feeling wasn't enough. She saw flashing lights—the cameras after she left the courtroom. What were the newspapers trying to capture? Her mother was stoic. Sang-mi was nothing but composed. Their lawyer had already read a short statement expressing that they believed no man was above the law, not even their father and husband. But still the newspapers tried to spin their tales. "Heartbreaking: A Family Torn Apart by Cult," "Mother Secretly Has Sympathies, Source Says," "When Will Daddy Come Home? Daughter Cries." All of them lies. Lies, lies, lies.

And so he was put away in spring.

She thought about calling her mother, but she didn't want to risk reminding her. _I hope she forgets what day it is_. The thought came out almost like a prayer.

"I know you miss winter, but the figure skating's no good in here."

Sang-mi looked up. Her roommate, Ji-yoo.

"Sorry," Sang-mi blurted out.

"What exactly _were _you doing?" Ji-yoo asked.

"So how did the chemistry final go?" Sang-Mi was eager to change the subject.

"Ugh, don't remind me. I absolutely failed." Sang-mi only half listened as Ji-yoo led her through the intricacies of the science exam.

Ji-yoo. The best fun and the best remedy. A bit naïve, at times, but Sang-Mi realized by now that she was older than her peers. Not older in age, but older in spirit. That place had added years to her. That place had taught her lessons against her will, and all of those lessons built on her like rings on a tree. She sometimes grieved for the youth she had taken from her. But it was as if fate knew this and brought Ji-yoo into her life. Ji-yoo saw the world with childlike wonder. She loved make-pretend games and silly pranks and never thought herself weird for doing so. She spent a whole month hiding a rubber lizard in Sang-Mi's things. Sang-Mis wasn't particularly scared of lizards, but every time she would see the lizard, she would pretend to be frightened just for Ji-yoo. Ji-yoo would laugh and laugh.

And somehow, even in the middle of talking about her tumultuous relationship with chemistry, Ji-yoo was still laughing. She was laughing about the boy in front of her who had his hair cut so there was one long triangle down the front.

"But he put styling gel in it, right? So it was sticking up! And he—oh my God-he looked like a unicorn!" Ji-yoo blurted out. She laughed and laughed and laughed. Her laughter was contagious. Sang-mi laughed too. And they laughed, until-

A phone ringing.

"It's yours," Sang-mi said.

"No," Ji-yoo replied, holding up her silent phone.

Sang-mi rummaged through her backpack to find her phone.

"Hello?"

"Uh, yes, is this Miss Im?"

"Speaking."

"This is Mr. Oh, from Yu Law Offices. I am calling regarding the proposition. I was wondering if you had any time to reconsider."

"Excuse me," Sang-mi stuttered out, "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."

"I am your father's lawyer, Miss Im."

Sang-mi was taken aback. This was not true. Her father's lawyer did not have that last name. She told this strange man as much.

"My apologies, Miss Im. I am your father's lawyer since he has been in prison. I specialize in current inmates, not sentencing."

"That's impossible," Sang-mi stated curtly. "Who is paying you? We sure aren't. And dad doesn't have any-"

"I am not at liberty to discuss that matter, Miss Im. And if you read the letter I sent, you would know this all by now."

"I didn't get any letter."

"Really? Because I received a response from you."

"When?"

"About a month ago."

Sang-mi was utterly confused. A letter? A month ago? That she, herself, had supposedly responded to. Was she going crazy? Had she lost time? Maybe the trauma had caused her to forget things-

"I also left several phone messages," the lawyer interjected in a cool tone.

"To this phone?"

"To your home phone."

Home.

Mom.

"I'm sorry," Sang-mi finally said, collecting herself. "I still need some time to, uh—"

"To consider our proposition," the lawyer filled in.

"Yes, that," Sang-mi replied.

"Well, we are on a deadline, Ms. Im," the lawyer said coldly.

"When do you need to hear back from me?"

"By the end of the week."

The end of the week? It was already Wednesday. How was she going to figure all of this out by the end of the week?

"I understand," Sang-mi replied.

"I will be awaiting your call." And the line went dead.

"Who was that?" Ji-yoo asked, her probing curiosity apparent.

"Just some financial things," Sang-mi said, trying to shrug it off.

"Oh. Ew." Nothing made Ji-yoo lose interest like money talk.

The end of the week. Sang-mi needed to figure this out, and soon.

"Ji-yoo, can you do me a favor?"

"Hm?"

"Can you feed the fish while I'm gone?"


	2. Into the Hills

The train ride had taken her out of the city and into the countryside. Sang-mi had left at dawn: she had watched as the sun rose over the suburbs. That great orb continued its climb as the houses grew sparser, giving way to the trees and foliage of the rural communities.

She looked down at the textbook in her lap. "Distinct Markers of Cognitive Development, Ages 8-14," the title read. Sang-mi was taking a course on childhood development as a part of her program. She was training to be a youth social worker. It had taken Sang-mi a while to settle on a career path. Many of her professors had pointed out how talented of a public speaker she was and suggested she go in to broadcasting or even acting. But Sang-mi was tired of speaking to the masses, and she didn't want to have to pretend ever again. So she chose a career where the truth was sacred above all else. She wanted to hear the truth from young ones: she wanted them to know that their truth mattered, and someone was listening to their problems.

She scanned the first paragraph. She realized she didn't retain any of it. She read it again. Then again.

It was no good. Her mind was distracted by all of the signs of life she could see through the train windows. Who lived in these houses? What were these people doing now? What were their jobs, their hopes, their fears? Sang-mi had still retained her curiosity for other people. At the root of it was an openness, a belief that she should be receptive to learning about others. Her ordeal hadn't taken that away from her. Her mother was different, however. Her mother's time at the cult had scrubbed away any good faith she had towards strangers. Sang-mi first saw it when her mother and she had been taken to the hospital following their rescue. Sang-mi had welcomed the help from the doctors, but her mother was still wary. She didn't want to take any medicine. She didn't even want to wear a hospital gown. She kept asking to be released, but the doctors held her for an internal exam—they were worried about the cult's drugs affects on her stomach. When the time came to put Sang-mi's mother under for anesthesia, she panicked. She wouldn't let the doctors inject anything. She thrashed wildly. Sang-mi held her hand and raised her voice, commanding her mother to look only at her eyes. Finally the doctor had snuck his syringe in, and her mother's eyes closed.

Her mother's new-found phobia of strangers had prompted her to move to the countryside after Sang-mi left for university. The money she had won from a settlement with the remnants of the church would ensure that she had a comfortable lifestyle. Modest, yes, but still comfortable. Sang-mi was still worried that her mother would never reenter society, that she would die alone in the hills. Whenever Sang-mi brought up the subject with her mother, she brushed it off.

"I'm not scared of people," she insisted. "I'm just tired of smiling when I don't feel like it."

Sang-mi was due for a visit with her mother, but she wished it was under other circumstances. She would already be missing all of her classes on Thursday and Friday, and with it being so close to midterms, she wasn't sure her grades would recover. But it was the only way to get to the bottom of this. 

She rehearsed what she would say to her mother in her head. _Did you hide a letter addressed to me? _No, don't open with a question. A statement: _I know you hid a letter from me. _Better. Put the burden on her mother, have her no way to get out of it. Sang-mi loved her mother more than anything else, but she knew well the truth all daughters know: mothers are experts at avoiding the truth.

Time passed in the way it does when your mind is consumed: too quickly. Sang-mi was there.

She didn't want to alert her mother to her presence, otherwise she would have called her for a ride from the station. She flagged down a cab. The driver was silent; Sang-mi was thankful. Today was not a day for small talk. And, again, she hated pretending.

The cab pulled into the drive and let her out. She made her way to the door. Two strong knocks.

"Who is it?" A wary voice. The door was still closed.

"Butterfly," Sang-mi replied. The word doubled as a nickname and a code word: _everything will be all right._

The door opened. Sang-Mi's mother's eyes were wide with simultaneous joy and confusion.

"Sweetheart! Sweetheart! What are you doing here?" All this said through the strongest hug Sang-mi had received in a while.

"Nice to see you, too, Mom."

"Oh, I'm sorry. It _is _nice to see you. Come in."

The house was as she had remembered, just a bit more cluttered. Its colors were cozy and vaguely retro: the cabinets were a dark oak; the furniture was all various shades of beige. The kitchen was spacious and opened in to a small living room area. Down a hallway to the right, two bedrooms. Sang-mi had told her mother she only needed to find a place with one bedroom, but she didn't listen. The second was Sang-Mi's room and, as such, was filled with mementos from her childhood. Her stuffed animals covered every flat surface; her dresser was filled with clothes that she would never wear again. But it made her mom happy, and so Sang-Mi let the room be what it was: a shrine to a lost time.

"Are you staying long?" The first question was always hopeful.

"I don't know."

"What does that mean?" Her mother's eyes were probing but still kind.

"Can I have some tea? It was a long trip."

"Sure, sure." 

As her mother prepared the tea, Sang-mi used the reprieve as an opportunity to investigate how her mother was living. She noticed candy wrappers littered over the living room couch. Sang-Mi took this as evidence that her mom was still engaging in her favorite pastime: watching sappy movies while idly reaching for chocolate. Sugar was her mother's vice. Sang-mi didn't complain: there were several worse vices her mother could pick. Sang-mi still remembered the first time her mother drank after their father's trial was over. It was a dinner at a nice restaurant to celebrate Sang-mi going away to college. Out of habit, perhaps, Sang-mi's mother drank a bit too much. Rather than getting giddy like she used too, she became scared. Her faced turned dark. "I don't like this," was all she said, and Sang-mi knew that one statement held a deeper truth. Her mother's eyes darted around the restaurant, wary of some unidentifiable threat. They had left early. 

Her mother had gained weight steadily since the two had left Gunsonwon. Sang-mi didn't mind. It didn't seem like her mother did, either.

"Tea," her mother announced. The cup rattled as it was set on the table. "So?"

"So," Sang-mi tried to draw it out as long as she could. She wasn't sure where to start. "I got a call."

"Hm?"

"From a lawyer."

"Tell them we're done litigating, there's no more to be done," her mother said nonchalantly.

"He was dad's lawyer."

Her mother's smile dropped.

"The lawyer said he sent a letter," Sang-mi said, easing in to the topic. "But I haven't seen any letter."

"That's odd."

"He also said I responded."

Her mother's eyes went down to her lap, averting her gaze.

"Mom."

"It's not anything important," her mother said meekly.

"Then why did you hide it from me?"

"I just…I just didn't want you to have to worry about this anymore. You should be moving on with your life." Her mother's voice was earnest.

"Don't you trust me to make that decision for myself?"

"Of course, sweetheart." 

"Then why didn't you?"

Her mother let out a long exhale. "There were so many things I didn't protect you from—"

"That wasn't your fault—" Sang-mi interjected.

"No, let me finish. Please."

Sang-mi settled back in her chair. Her mother resumed:

"There were so many things I didn't protect you from. Worse. I caused you pain. I kept you there. In a way, I was one of your captors too."

"Mom, we've been over this," Sang-mi exhaled. "They did things to you, messed with your head. You can't blame yourself for what you said when you were under those drugs."

"I've been thinking about that a lot, Sang-mi," her mother let out slowly. "Hallucinogens—those kinds of drugs—I read they don't really change your personality. They just build on it, expand it. You see and act out of thoughts you already had. Which means, somewhere deep down, I wanted to stay there."

"I don't believe that," Sang-mi countered.

"If I were a better mother my mind would have told me to fight. My instincts would have been to leave with you, to protect you. But instead I was…" Her mother's voice trailed off.

"You're not weak, Mom."

Her mother snapped back to attention. "I can never make up for what I did to you," she said boldly. "I know that. But I can try. And this—this was one of those ways."

"Explain to me what 'this' is," Sang-mi pressed. Her mother paused.

"This man, this new lawyer, he contacted me first," she explained. "He told me that he took over your father's case after he was sentenced. He was trying to put together a case to get your father out early."

"Early," Sang-mi's eyes were wide. "Is that even possible?"

"He has been a model prisoner," her mother continued. "He could be let out early for good behavior. But the lawyer needed to show evidence of that. And he wanted…"

"What, Mom?"

"He wanted a statement from me saying that I believed your father was no longer a threat, and that I wholeheartedly want his early release."

"Is that true?" Sang-mi pressed. The question hung in the air for a long while.

"No," Sang-mi's mother asserted firmly. "There are many things I don't understand about why your father did the things he did, but I do know I can't forgive him. And the last thing I want is leniency. Maybe that makes me a bad wife."

"It doesn't," Sang-mi reached her hand out and grabbed her mother's. "Look at me mom."

Her mother complied.

"It doesn't," Sang-mi repeated.

"Thank you," her mother replied, still cradling her daughter's hand. "I didn't respond to the letter. I was going to, but every time I tried to put my feelings into words I froze. And then they were calling. They called all the time. I was afraid to pick up the phone. But the final straw was when the letter came for you."

"What did it say?"

"The same thing, they wanted the same statement, that you wanted your father out early. So I wrote back for you. I told him you weren't ready to provide such a statement. I'm sorry, sweetheart."

"I understand why you did what you did," Sang-mi replied. "I just don't like being kept in the dark."

"I promise I won't do it again."

"I hope nothing this ever happens again," Sang-mi added, looking around the house.

"How did he get your cell phone number?" Sang-mi's mother asked, suddenly worried. "How could he know—"

"He probably looked it up on the internet, mom," Sang-mi said calmly, trying to assuage her mother's fears. "Everything's on the internet these days."

"Right," her mother said, slowly calming down. "But I still don't like it."

"I said I would give him an answer as to whether I reconsidered," Sang-mi told her mother.

"You're not going to talk to him, are you?" 

"I already have, mom."

The look on her mother's face was like she had eaten something sour.

"Fine, but don't call him back," her mother finally said. "Wait for him to call you."

Later that evening, Sang-mi joined her mother on the couch. They agreed on a movie to watch, but neither of them got to see very much of it. Instead, they stayed up through the night talking about everything and nothing. Sang-mi shared odd facts about her classmates, little anecdotes from class that she thought her mother would find amusing. Her mother talked about the books she had been reading and the different people she had met while in town. And sometimes they didn't talk at all, just comfortable sitting in silence with each other, basked in the blue glow of the TV screen.

When it was time for Sang-mi to go to bed, she kissed her mother on the forehead and went to try to find a space for her body between all of her stuffed animals. In the middle of the night, when she was pretending to be asleep, Sang-mi felt her mother standing in the doorway watching her. Sang-mi let her body rise and fall with each exaggerated breath: _I am alright, Mom. I'm here._


	3. Repentant

The phone call came on Friday. Sang-mi was at the breakfast table with her mother. It was a little after eight thirty—the lawyer couldn't even wait for business hours to start.

"Hello," Sang-mi said into the device. She could feel her mother's intense eyes.

"Hello, Miss Im. This is Mr. Oh. We had spoken previously."

"I remember."

There was a pause.

"Have you had a chance to think on your father's proposition?"

_Your father. _He hadn't phrased it like that before. Somehow those words made this all seem closer.

"I have," Sang-mi replied, gathering herself together. "And I don't think I can provide what you want. I am sorry."

"Well, that is very disappointing," the lawyer said, coolly. "Your father has been doing everything he can to correct himself. He will be very sad to hear about this."

"What is he saying?" Sang-mi's mother whispered urgently.

"I am glad to hear he is working hard," Sang-mi replied, her voice wavering just a bit.

"I want to tell you something, Miss Im," the lawyer continued. "In my line of work, I have visited several prisons across the country. And the facility they are holding your father at is…" he let the pause hang in the air. "The facility is not good."

Sang-Mi was transported, just for a second. She remembered the feeling of captivity. She remembered the fear. 

The lawyer continued without her response. "There are very dangerous people there. Sometimes there are fights. The guards do their best to break up the fights, but not always before people have already been hurt."

Sang-mi's mother reached for the phone. Sang-mi still held it up to her ear, frozen.

The lawyer slowed his voice. Each word was deliberate. "He is a hardworking man. And he is repentant. Do you think he deserves to get hurt?"

Sang-mi's mother finally grabbed the phone out of her daughter's hand.

"She doesn't want to talk to you!" she yelled into the speaker. She hung up and threw the phone away from her like it was a snake.

"What did he say?" she asked.

"Mom," Sang-mi let out slowly. "Do you think Dad is safe?"

"Oh honey." Sang-mi's mother took her daughter in her arms. "Yes, he is safe. He is probably not having a good time. But he is safe."

Sang-mi held her mother tightly. "Can I stay until Sunday?" 

"Of course, of course," her mother cooed. "Anything you need."

The next days passed in a haze of lethargy and creature comforts. It rained most of Friday into Saturday, so Sang-mi and her mother curled up inside with tea and television. Her mother made piping hot tofu soup. Even when they weren't talking, they were always in each other's space, not willing to let either of each other out of their sight.

Saturday evening came. They shared the leftover of the soup. Sang-mi broached the subject of leaving. 

"I need to be on the first train out if I want to be back at school at a reasonable time," Sang-mi stated.

"When is that?"

"6:30am."

Her mother let out a small noise of exasperation.

"I'll be fine," Sang-mi stated. "I get up early for school most days anyway. But you _don't _have to get up with me, Mom. I'll call a cab."

"Let me drive you."

"Mom."

"Sang-mi."

It was one of those mother-daughter standoffs where the mother wins out of seniority.

"Fine," Sang-mi acquiesced. She dropped her utensils into her empty bowl. "But we should get to bed soon. We both have to be up early."

"Wait," her mother said before running out of the room. She returned with a small envelope. She handed it to her daughter. "Take this."

"What-?" Sang-mi opened the envelope. Money. Too much money. "Mom, I told you, I don't need this."

"Shhh, shhh. Just take it."

"You would use it better than I ever would."

"What am I supposed to do with it? I have everything I need," her mother insisted. "Take your friends out for a meal. Say your mom's the coolest." 

"I can say that anyway," Sang-mi replied.

"Just take it." 

Sang-mi sighed. Another stand-off won by Mom.

Sang-Mi and her mother woke up in the dark. They drove in silence through the blue light of near-dawn. Her mother got out of the car and took her daughter in an embrace.

"I love you," her mother said deliberately.

"I love you too."

As Sang-Mi boarded the train, neither she nor her mother knew that across the country a lawyer was also traveling through the blue light of pre-dawn. He was in the back seat of a black car on his way to a county prison. In his lap was a bound file containing documents all pertaining to a certain Mr. Im. He flipped through the dividers in the folder. He opened to a divider labeled "Family Reference." The section was empty. He removed the label.

"Shame we couldn't persuade her," the lawyer said.

A much older gentleman sat across from him, stoic.

"I'm not sure I'm ready for the meeting with the judge today," the lawyer let out nervously. "Can we ask for it to be postponed?"

"We have nothing to worry about," the silver-haired man said calmly.

"What does that mean?" the lawyer said quietly.

"Things will turn out in our favor today."

"How can you know?"

The silver-haired man did not reply. He only looked out the car window. The sun was rising. 


	4. The Gang's All Here

Sang-mi knew her decisions weren't always the most prudent. She went with her gut: sometimes that got her in trouble, and sometimes that got her out of it. Whichever way her instincts were pulling her, they were too hard to ignore. And tonight her gut told her she needed to go out and get drunk.

Sang-mi threw her bags back on her bed. She picked up her phone. The whoosh of a text message being sent. She changed her skirt, threw on some lip gloss, and was out the door.

At the bar, the first to arrive was Dong-cheol. By chance he had applied to Sang-mi's university as well. He hadn't had his hopes up—the college was prestigious, and he was going for the even more exclusive major of engineering—but he made it in in the end. No doubt the media attention he had received for being a part of the cult's undoing helped give his application a boost. At school, Dong-cheol had gone all-in on the "rural tough guy" aesthetic. He wore plain clothes, but he wore them well. His body stayed fit from constant workouts. Needless to say, female eyes were following him wherever he went.

And tonight was no exception.

"Dong-cheol, the celebrity," Sang-mi said, raising her voice over the sounds of the bar.

"Shut up."

"Please, do _not _pretend you don't notice every girl in here watching you."

"And now they think you're my girlfriend."

"Great," Sang-mi sighed. "What a way to get everyone in the room to hate me."

He chuckled. Sang-mi ordered two beers. Dong-cheol moved his gaze over the bar. The scene was a mix of amber from traditional lighting and neon glows from various machines and signs. It wasn't as packed or intense as some of the proper clubs he had been too. He wondered briefly if that was where this night was going—Sang-mi was a great dancer, and nothing helped her unwind like the clubs. He watched her as she practically chugged her beer.

"I didn't know we were having a competition," he said.

Sang-mi held up her empty glass. "Oh," she said, almost surprised.

"Stressed?"

"Maybe…" Sang-mi's voice trailed off. She didn't know how much she wanted to get into. She was keenly aware that the cult wasn't something to be brought up lightly, especially for those who had also endured the trauma. Dong-cheol had one night confessed that he still had nightmares about his father being trapped there, even though his father was long since saved.

"Are you still seeing that woman?" Dong-cheol tried to have the question come out lightly, but the weightiness of the matter rang through. The women he was referring to was Sang-mi's psychiatrist.

"Yes," Sang-mi said, playing with her glass. "But it's not that."

"Oh?"

"I mean, it is, kinda." She exhaled. "It's my dad."

A loud yell rang through the bar. Everyone turned to look.

"Heyyyyyy!"

It was Jung-hoon. He was as enthusiastic as ever. He stumbled his way through the crowd. Man-ee, his companion, followed close behind.

"My gang! My gang!" Jung-hoon continued to yell. "The gang's all here!"

The statement caused Sang-mi to reflect. Despite Jung-hoon's enthusiasm, there was still one missing. Sang-hwan. She had sent the text to everyone, including him. She knew that he had a stressful job as a lawyer, but she didn't send texts like this lightly. He should know that if she needed company, she needed him, too. Would he come through?

"Stop yelling," Man-hee told his friend, quietly. Though Man-hee was bigger than Jung-hoon in height and weight, he was often the meeker one.

"Are you already drunk?" Dong-cheol asked.

"Do you see those girls? They recognize me!" Jung-hoon boasted.

"What would they recognize you from?" Dong-cheol responded.

"My stream, of course," Jung-hoon concluded. His tone made it seem like this fact should be obvious.

"I think they're staring at your hat," Dong-cheol said.

"What's wrong with my hat? This is the style now," Jung-hoon said, turning his cap this way and that. It had a puff ball on the top.

"It's the style in what country?" Man-hee asked earnestly.

"So what did I miss?' Jung-hoon said, shrugging off the insult.

"Nothing," Dong-cheol responded. He made eye contact with Sang-mi. He was willing to not broach the topic, if she didn't want to. He gave the choice to her.

"We were actually talking about Dong-cheol's reputation with the ladies," Sang-mi said, smiling.

Jung-hoon and Man-hee's faces lit up. When it came to romantic endeavors, they liked to live vicariously through Dong-cheol.

"Who's the best you've had this semester?" Jung-hoon asked.

"Don't say that!" Man-hee yelled, hitting his friend. "Geesh, you are so crass."

Sang-mi was looking at the door. She felt a twang of some emotion. Longing? Guilt, that the company of Dong-cheol wasn't enough?

"Are you okay?" Dong-cheol asked, noticing Sang-mi's far-off gaze.

"I'm fine," she said.

"Who is the nicest girl you've met this semester?" Man-hee asked. He was really a big softie.

Dong-cheol made eye contact with Sang-mi.

"I want to know too, Romeo," she said to Dong-cheol. He smiled.

The conversation that evening roamed from women to sports to classes—everything except what was really on Sang-mi's mind. But she wanted it that way. Maybe if she could fill her heart with friends and beer she could calm the nagging feeling that something was not right. Her head told her that everything was settled, but her gut told her something else. Was it paranoia, or premonition?

Halfway across the country, Sang-mi's mother was also trying to quell that same nagging disquiet. She sat at her kitchen table, alone, absentmindedly eating a bowl of ramen. Should she call her daughter? No, it was less than eight hours since she had seen her. She didn't want her daughter to feel burdened.

A creak.

Did she make up that sound?

She rose from the table. The house was old. She tried to remind herself of that. Maybe it was windy. She went to the window—the trees were still. No wind.

Another creak.

She quickened her pace. She combed through the house, starting with Sang-mi's room and ending with her own. But nothing. No one. Just her, alone. As always.

Mrs. Kim changed in to her pajamas. She washed her face. She locked her bedroom door—she had never done that before. She turned off the light, curled herself in her sheets, and closed her eyes.

Creak.


End file.
